CS Ghosts in Love AU
by itsalostgirlthing
Summary: Emma's still trying to get the hang of being a ghost, but luckily she finds a stranger who can show her the ropes. (A Tumblr prompt I wrote a while ago)


Ghosts in Love AU. Here's a fluffy ghost story about Emma and Killian meeting in the afterlife.

* * *

She didn't know why she was crying, but the sound echoed all around her and only encouraged her to keep at it. She shuddered again, her whole body crumpling into a heap against the brick wall. Was she sad? Was she afraid? Was she heartbroken? Was she lamenting the life she could have had if this hadn't happened?

_'And what kind of life was that? Take-out every night alone in your apartment with seven cats?'_ she asked herself because Emma Swan wasn't exactly the most sociable of people. Most of her life was spent alone and she was alone until her very last breath. She waited there when it was all over, watching her own body lie there in a pool of dark liquid on the gray concrete sidewalk.

Being in this state was cold, like the cutting wind on a wintry day. She hated winter, too.

At nearly three in the morning, a police cruiser drove passed and found her. She whimpered louder as they reported in a murder victim to an unfazed voice responding through the scratchy noise of the walkie-talkie.

Emma Swan was murdered. Stabbed in the stomach for a goddamn purse and wallet.

It was too much, so she ran, ghostly tears flying from her eyes. Her vision blurred and when she blinked her tears away, she found herself at a playground overseeing the beach.

Her second foster home was set in a small rickety house with a horrible Pepto Bismol-pink paint job just down the block from here, but this place, with its newly added slide and swing additions was the only home she'd ever had. The play house had been replaced by something newer, safer, and with much more plastic, but she could still recall the old wooden castle that she'd done her homework under. Little Emma spent her afternoons swinging back and forth, listening to the rhythmic creak of the metal links, and walking down to the water during the sweltering summer days.

Her foster parents were far from family material, but they left her alone to do whatever she wished and just like now, she only wished to find solace at _her _park.

* * *

Killian sat underneath the pier, staring out at the horizon, waiting for the waves of his death's memory to overtake him again. He figured he might as well cut to the chase today and wait by the ocean's side, it's where he ended up every time anyway.

He'd be walking around town, commenting on the living, giving them unheard advice, reading e-books over people's shoulders, then it would overtake him. He'd start coughing up water, but no matter how much he heaved out, it never stopped. The pain was endless and then he was falling, sinking slowly down to the bottom of whatever was near—a stream, a pool, the ocean. It was always so cold and the farther he sunk, the darker it became. His eyes would slowly drift close, then just like that, it'd be over; the memory completely played out, and he'd swim back up to the surface, feeling, once again, nothing—never anything but the pain of his memory.

But today was different.

Today, when everything muffled in his ears and the tightening in his chest started to become unbearable, he heard someone crying. She wouldn't stop and he wanted to make it stop; the sound of her pain and the feeling of his own tangling together.

Then it did.

The next thing he knew, he felt something he hadn't felt in decades—_warm _hands on his shoulders, lifting him upright followed by the glorious relief of air whooshing into his chest. He gulped on it greedily and coughed until he was sure all the water was out of his lungs.

It was gone. Everything was gone, including the crying. He fell back onto the beach, sand sticking to his wet hair, and squinted up at the blinding sun.

"Hey," the woman asked, her eyes still a little red. "You okay?" Her blonde hair lit up like a golden halo, an angel that pulled him out of his nightmare.

"Thank you," Killian said in awe. He was talking to someone, someone real, someone who could see him—not just through him—and she was beautiful.

* * *

"I don't know how this all works yet," Emma said, kicking off on the swingset with all her might, but only managing to rustle it a little

"It just takes some time," Killian said, kicking off himself and actually getting the swing to move as if a breeze had pushed by.

"Show off," she grumbled.

"How long have you been—"

"What, dead?" Emma finished for him. Killian nodded solemnly. "Since midnight," she answered with forced nonchalance. She was a brave one. "I was walking home. It was late and I thought, 'Hey, I'll just save myself a couple bucks and walk home,'" she laughed darkly to herself. Killian shuddered, his stomach twisting into a knot knowing how the story would end. "Got mugged by some guy. Typical city death, right? Guess he was scared I'd ID him or something."

"Bloody bastard." Killian felt anger rise within him. "I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault. Besides," she sighed, "didn't know what I was doing anyway. Except the same thing—_over_ _and over_ every day for the last seven years." Killian was quiet, biting his tongue, waiting for the looming question.

"So, what about you?" And there it was. "What's your story?"

"I drowned."

"I figured as much." She waited for him to elaborate, but he stayed quiet, swaying gently on his swing. "How'd it happen?"

"I had a niece, my brother Liam's daughter. She was only six or seven when we all went fishing, and she was playing too close to the river."

"Damn," Emma cursed, knowing, too, how this story would end.

"She slipped, so I jumped in after her, but the current was strong and some brush passing by underneath me snagged my leg and I couldn't get out."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Not your fault," he copied, smiling softly over at her. "I thought this was purgatory until now, actually. I've never seen anyone else like me—not even my brother when he passed—so I thought my little rescue mission was interpreted as a suicide mission by God, gods, whoever's in charge."

"Suicide mission?" she asked in disbelief.

"I knew there was a chance that one of us wouldn't make it when I jumped in."

"Don't be ridiculous. You went out saving a little girl's life."

"Well, when you haven't had a two-way conversation in decades, you'd question this 'life,' too."

"Wait, decades?" she asked.

"It happened a while ago."

"How long ago?"

"Somewhere around a century or two."

"Oh. So, you're old," she smirked, and as wrong as this all was, it couldn't have felt more right because Killian actually smiled back at her.

"Ancient," he agreed.

"Over the hill?" she joked, and the two started laughing and hardly stopped thereafter.

* * *

They were wandering around Times Square; jumping in front of camera flashes and laughing when the photos came up a blur or over exposed on the digital screens.

In Central Park, Emma was cooing at a crying baby whose mother was too busy talking on her cell phone. The baby's crying stopped and was replaced with giggling. The woman rounded the stroller and stuck a blue pacifier with baby ducklings printed on it in its little mouth.

Killian watched sadly, thinking how wonderful Emma might've been with her own little bundle if she'd gotten the chance—met the right person who would've put an end to her lonely routine. When she returned to him, she ushered him down the path.

"And there's my good deed of the day. It's really strange how these little guys can see us, but no one else can." She turned back to wave goodbye at the little boy who shook his balled up fist, copying her movements.

"Does it upset you?" asked Killian. "Not being a mother?"

"I don't think I ever would have been cut out for the job."

"Maybe you just hadn't met the right person."

"You're right. I didn't meet the right person _when I was alive_," she said, stressing the 'alive' part, and gave him a look the two had been sharing for quite a while now.

Because when you're dead, time is excruciatingly slow, yet fast all the same; the minutes in your head seem to almost tick backwards, but the scenery around you whirls around and never stops. It's like being in the eye of a storm.

But with Emma, time had a lazy pace—full of possibilities for two bodiless spirits; kindred spirits from different times, different worlds, but two sides of the same coin.

"Oh, look—family picture!" she shouted, tugging his arm toward the group of tourists.

Yeah, time didn't bother him anymore—

Because Killian had decided a while ago that his new purpose was keeping that smile on Emma's face, and he was pretty good at it.

* * *

"Do you know what today is?" Emma asked, poking at his side, making him jump in his seat on the empty train. He'd never seen death look so beautiful; Emma made it look like freedom, a gain instead of a loss.

"No—bloody hell, woman, stop your incessant tickling. What's so special about today?"

"I call your bluff. After not being tickled for a century, I think you secretly love it." He couldn't help it, he grinned. "So. Today. Come on, you have to know." He stared at her blankly, waiting for her to elaborate on the special occasion. "Do you really not pay attention to the time?"

"Not when you're as old as I am."

"Such an old geezer," she poked him again. "It's officially been a year since you last—well, you know."

It'd been a year since he last felt the cool depths of the ocean, or any body of water for that matter; it'd been a year since he felt the icy pains of his death_. _Ever since Killian met Emma—every time that cold shiver started to run up his spine—Emma was there with her comforting arms, snapping him out of it, and it worked like a charm every time.

It'd officially been a year since he met his amazing Emma Swan.

"And I have you to thank for that, lass," he said, weaving his fingers into hers, entwining them and enjoying the feel—and not just the ability of being able to feel again, but the feel of _her._ Every time they touched, it was like lightning shooting through him. It lit him up in a way that made Killian think he'd never truly been alive at all.

She didn't say anything for a long time. Just stared down at their hands until she slowly and hesitantly rested her head on his shoulder. Who would've known that death could bring such a person into her life. Well, _afterlife._

"Where to next?" she asked, pointing to the world map displayed in the bookstore. It was a curious place in San Francisco—their latest adventure. There were so many nooks and crannies; doorways you had to duck under if you were on the tall side—unless you were a ghost, that is. Books were stacked everywhere—shelves, book cases, even in small towers littering the floor. The store looked more like someone's library.

"Wherever you choose," he said, taking her hand again. He always did that.

"Neverland," she replied teasingly.

"We _are_ in Neverland."

"True, true." Her laugh was light as air and it was the most pleasant thing to ever ring in his ears. "Well, the pyramids were fun."

"But we've been there twice already."

"Who knows how many other hidden tunnels there are in there!" she said excitedly. "You have to admit, that was pretty cool."

"Fine, it was fun, but let's pick another place to haunt this time. _Please?_"

"Oh, yes. Because we're _scary ghosts,_ I forgot after we danced in New Orleans under the moonlight, Mr. Romantic."

"Have to get you to hold me somehow." She playfully slapped his chest and leaned into his touch when his arm snaked around her waist.

"I've always wanted to go to Europe," she finally answered.

"Good, I'll show you where I grew up."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he smiled.

She hugged him tight, waiting for the blur of light to surround them, and when they were in that tornado of images and sounds, she felt his warm lips on hers and realized it was true what they said—that things really did happen for a reason.

And Emma couldn't think of any better reason than to stay wrapped up in Killian's arms, his forehead pressed against hers, for the rest of eternity.


End file.
